


Leave A Message

by gerty_3000



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games), Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:36:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerty_3000/pseuds/gerty_3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Rouven = Beard, Richard = Jacket.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Leave A Message

**Author's Note:**

> Rouven = Beard, Richard = Jacket.

Richard wasn't entirely sure why he stopped answering the phone. He never did it on purpose. Not at first, at least. At first, it was just because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. His phone would ring when he was in the shower, or asleep, or at the store or just in a dark place inside his head. He would always neglect to call back, but he made sure to listen to the messages left behind. Every time. They sounded like Rouven was talking as if he weren't even there to hear it, just more rhetorical questions, ones meant to be answered later but he never got around to.

This started few and far between. A single missed call every week or so, and, as always, there would be a message left behind for him, sometimes lengthy, going on for over five minutes, sometimes short; a simple good morning and hopes for a bright, happy day.

They were sweet, and did indeed help brighten his day. He didn't talk that much when he WAS able to answer the phone, just occasionally hum and grunt in response, but it drastically changed the conversations. Not for better or worse, but it was definitely less like Rouven was talking to himself. Richard liked not having to answer the phone and feel guiltless.

Soon, he started to purposefully ignore the phone, and Rouven would assume he was busy, and leave a message for later. Richard liked hearing what the other man had to say, even if it was just rambling on and on for the sake of it. What he liked, especially, though, were the messages he woke up to, some he played over and over again, some deleted to make room for more recent ones. They were always bubbly, which was strange, considering he just... stopped picking up the phone.

Time continued to pass. He picked up maybe once a month, more recently, and found himself crying quietly into the receiver when Rouven would talk. He wasn't sure why. Richard felt a crushing aloneness in his shitty Miami apartment, stuck in the sticky heat without any real contact. The agony was nearly palpable, even over the phone, and his friend could tell. His cheery demeanor melted into a more melancholy one, as if he was letting go of a great weight on his chest. His voice, once full of life, soon started to feel heavy and dull.

The ache in Richard's chest would pull and pull until he barely felt like he could even move. He couldn't even stand to listen to the messages anymore. He deleted them the second his machine would blink its single red eye. He couldn't think of his dear friend in San Fransisco, running his shop, or bar, or pizza store. He couldn't remember exactly what it was that Rouven did, and the hole in his memory hurt. It hurt like how his days spent laying in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end hurt. It hurt like how he couldn't even leave his house hurt, how his landlord would knock on his door for at least five minutes, shouting that his rent was overdue but he just couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. He couldn't even bring himself to delete the messages anymore, he just let them stagnate in his inbox.

Then... April 3rd came.

Richard spent the entire day locked in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub and staring down at the tiled floor, curling his toes against the cold linoleum. He could hear his phone ringing. It rang. And rang. And rang. It rang three more times before there was a tone, then a soft voice chiming that he had one new message.

He didn't leave the room for another four hours. He passed by his answering machine without a second thought, going straight for the beat-up couch in his living room- something he'd picked up off the side of the road. He plopped down in it, finding only the strength to pick up the remote to his TV.

The channel was a news broadcast. It was strange- he never watched the news. It couldn't hold his interest anymore. Richard furrowed his brow and changed the channel. Another news broadcast. He changed it again, and it was another fucking news broadcast. The man was starting to get frustrated, and started flipping through every channel. Of course, what he expected was true- news anchors speaking in flustered tones, worried, panicked. It took him a second to focus. He sat up, leaned closer, staring at the screen with narrowed eyes; the screen too bright against the curtain-drawn darkness of his home.

Reports of a nuclear bomb. A warhead detonated. In California. San Fransisco was affected. Russian tensions. War. San Fransisco.

His heart had practically leaped into his throat, pounding ferociously in his chest. Richard felt light-headed. This had to be a dream. This was a dream! There was... no way this could have happened. He stood up, feeling light as a feather, like a stiff breeze could push him over. His feet didn't make a sound as he wandered towards his answering machine, and played the most recent message. He couldn't hear all of it, his head swimming as he strained his ears, hanging on to what syllables he could understand.

"-Things like that are never easy... You know what they say. Time heals all wounds... So, you remember that photo we took, from Hawaii?" 

There was a pause, like Rouven was reconsidering even asking. Richard could hear him take in a breath.

"Did you ever get around to sending me a copy of it?"

He hadn't. The photo was tucked away in his underwear drawer, hidden from the world. It hadn't seen light in half a year.

"...Well, whenever you get a chance, man. Look, there seems to be somethin' going on outside my shop. I'm gonna go look, okay? I'll uh... I'll talk to you later. Bye!"

Richard held the edges of the desk with trembling hands, his chest heaving with sharp breaths. He hadn't cried in a while, but the tears had welled up in his eyes and were falling in an alarming quantity. His chest was burning, and he was whimpering. This couldn't have been real. None of this was real. This wasn't real. Every regret under the sun ran through his head.

He picked up the phone, and dialed Rouven's number.

"Hey! You've reached Rouven's phone. I can't pick up at the moment, but leave a message after the beep, and I'll get to you as soon as I can!"

Richard shook his head, hung up, and dialed again.

"Hey! You've reached Rouven's phone. I can't pick up at the moment, but leave a message after the beep, and I'll get to you as soon as I can!"

He hung up again, starting to panic. Rouven never missed his calls! Maybe he was just on the toilet, or, or something. He slammed the phone down, taking in a sharp, pitched breath, and waited ten seconds before picking it up and dialing again.

"Hey! You've reached Rouven's phone. I can't pick up at the moment, but leave a message after the beep, and I'll get to you as soon as I can!"


End file.
